Red Sharpies
by Autumness
Summary: "What a waste of good cookies," he saw the look that Van Pelt threw him. "It's true!" [Jane/Lisbon] An old fic of mine I decided to put here on .


Title: **Red Sharpies.**  
>Fandom: <strong>The Mentalist - JaneLisbon**  
>Prompt: <strong>Red Sharpie marker<strong>

A/N: This is the fic that**chizuru_chibi** requested for a long long time ago. :) I decided to cut off the long draggy unknown ending to the whole fic and give it a nice short one instead. I hope you like it, **chizuru_chibi** !

Their latest case was the murder of a middle class family. A decent man found dead in his home office, his beautiful wife and their sweet daughter in the kitchen. Blood pooling on the white ceramic tiles of the kitchen floor, Van Pelt looking around sadly at the once homey room. She thought of the smell of home cooked meals and homemade cookies, never again in this kitchen would these aromas appear. She noticed Jane standing away from the crime scene, murders involving children always made them act awkward around each other. As she squatted down next to the body of the older woman with Rigsby, Jane slipped out of the corridor. The oven's clock went 'ding', Rigsby turned to it.

"What a waste of good cookies," he saw the look that Van Pelt threw him. "It's true!"

Jane could hear Van Pelt trying to explain to her teammate about the inappropriateness of his statement while going up to the second floor. He bypassed the home office where Lisbon, Cho and the medical examiner were, with the body of David McPhearson. Walked into the pink and white room down the corridor, the little girl's room. He glanced around, took note of the miniature furniture, lace covered surfaces, the explosion of stuffed animals arranged orderly on the perfectly made bed and the small writing table that stood in front of the opened window. He walked towards it, swept away the collection of colourful Sharpie markers which laid scattered on its surface and picked up the sheet of drawing paper with various doodles. The last activity that the young girl got to do before she went down to help her mother with baking, before her short life was over.

The imagination and mind of the little girl was sprawled all over the paper. Pink hearts, yellow suns, purple flowers, blue clouds and green trees. The one thing that drew his attention was the ring of smiley faces that she had drew in her red Sharpie marker at the corner of her paper. He had no idea how long he stayed in the room, eyes glued to the little drawing of their youngest victim. His mind filled with thought of a murder of another family – his family, the art of a serial killer left on the wall of his bedroom which faded from shining crimson to dull copper. Lost track of his time while he was buried in his thoughts. Lost in his own little world until he felt the weight of a small hand on his upper arm and heard the soft voice of Lisbon tell him that it was time to go back.

He felt himself slowly get pulled back to reality as she spoke. Building up his facade once more, he placed the paper down. She pulled her hand back once he moved, there was no need to keep holding on to him. They walked out of the room together, he let her take the lead like she always did. The house was empty. The crime scene unit had done what they were needed to do and the team had already left. Lisbon must have told them to head back, get the evidence and forensics to the labs and do whatever research needed on the victims' backgrounds. He looked at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, he had been in that room for nearly half an hour. The fact that Lisbon hadn't came in to get him much earlier surprised him. But he knew that she was uncomfortable around him when they were dealing with a murder of a child. Everyone was, because to them, he was the collateral damage of every murder involving a wife and daughter.

The drive back was quiet. The only sound was the noise of rubber wheels scraping against the gravel of the Sacramento roads. There was no need to discuss anything, it wouldn't help. She had no idea what to say to him, he had nothing to say to her. She stole concern glances at him occasionally, he knew. Typical Lisbon. She wouldn't say a thing, even if she was dying to. After all, she was an open book to him.

"I'm fine, Lisbon."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't say anything out loud, you were saying it all in your head. I can read your mind, remember?" His lips curled up into a slight smile, the best he could manage for now.

"Oh, suddenly you're psychic," her frown deepened as she slowed to a stop at a road intersection.

"No such things as psychics, dear Lisbon. Just me and my overly powerful skills of observations. That's what the CBI is paying me for."

"Shut up, Jane."

When they were back in the office, he lied on his couch, staring at the Elvis-shaped spot on the ceiling. His hands reached into his pocket and pulled out the red Sharpie marker that he had stole away from the little pink room. Twirled it around in his hands, remembering what it was used to illustrate on a clean sheet of drawing paper. The image that taunted him, the mark of the murderer he sworn to kill. He closed his eyes, blocked out everything in his surroundings, cleared his mind of everything. Everything, except the little red marker that was in his possession.


End file.
